lyatudor

[lyatudor]

[lyatudor]

Carnage Circus

Chapter 2 - No rhyme, no reason

Warning 🔞⚠️: A horror/thriller story depicting elements of blood, manipulation, death, murder, implication of sex or sex themes, abuse, guns, blood, smoking and alcohol consumption.

Fun fact: this is a chapter that has been added extra in the rewrite

Moments of freedom when she got to actually wander around were rare, if not close to impossible to obtain. Rules were made to be obeyed, never allowed to be broken, ingrained into each member of the main act. Their tents and caravans were their homes, forced into the confines of a designated space, hers more so than the others. As if Iris had done something wrong from the very second she became part of the main act. Or so she viewed her situation, a prison traded for another prison.

Yet, when they rehearsed, the main tent became her world. And during rehearsal days, though scattered in between to accommodate everyone and opened towards all staff, few, if none dared to attend when Alaric placed his name on the schedule.

Iris however, driven by sheer curiosity or madness, which were both valid in her head by that point, decided to place her name beside his. Because in truth she was nervous to return to the very town he saved her from. For three years it was as if he avoided it, spreading thin between other towns, however deep inside she knew it was only a matter of time until the circus was going to return. A show was a show, every town needed to be ticked off and the moment she found herself on known soil, her very soul became more restless.

And the only man who could hinder her more but also give her strength was Alaric.

She joined late, a path as if opening from her caravan to the main tent, steps light and not forced. She approached the main stage on silent feet, Alaric’s voice booming through the empty air. Peeking through the heavy velvet curtain, she stood and watched.

A moment of hesitation in his speech, before he opened his arms to the invisible audience, speaking about the magic of the circus, how it called to people from far and wide. She studied him, how his gloved hands flexed when he emphasized certain words that held importance in his speech and she knew the audience would eat it up immediately.

She had not known him to prepare a speech in advance, however seeing him rehearse it made him appear almost…human. He would repeat certain lines, a flourish of his voice, each line delivered to perfection as he gestured and waved his cane in the air, catching it with practiced ease.

Stepping into the main arena, a question left her lips before she could stop herself “How do you know what to say to them ahead of time?”

Alaric tipped his top hat and turned slightly towards her “And now, the main attraction, the very light of the circus, Iris Blackwell.” That rehearsed smile on his lips chilling her, calling out to her as if compelled to follow, to perform the actions, her veins hot as she stepped in the middle of the arena, placing a delicate hand into his, the leather of his worn-out gloves as if biting into her skin.

He spun her around, like a twirling doll on display, both as if dancing inside a burning room, the air leaving her lungs as her eyes caught the quick motion of the empty seats blurring in front of her vision before she came face to face with Alaric, him dipping his head, placing a kiss against her hand before leaving her to her act.

Iris shook her head as he retreated to the shadows, music assaulting her senses, her trying to speak above the sounds with no avail. She ran her trembling hands through her hair and spun around and around before she extended her hands and just continued to spin, letting the light above her pour onto her skin and the music go through her.

Even during a performance, it was not the crowd that fueled her. Eyes watching was not something she liked, but she learned early in life how to channel those feelings. What fueled her was anger and deep down the knowledge that he was also watching her. Not in the sense to ensure she was doing a good job, it was tattooed into her very essence whether she liked it or not since she joined the circus and found her act. She knew how to move, as if her body had been performing the motions for years.

But the knowledge that his dark eyes were keeping track of her every move, each smile that was falsely directed at the crowd even when she could not see them, appeared slightly genuine when she was center stage. She knew it, she felt it deep inside her bones. How his eyes would hone in on a single moment, one that appealed to him. He chose, carefully carving into his memory pieces of her performance. And the worst part was as she twirled invisible batons between fingers, was that she enjoyed performing for him.

It felt like the first time she discovered her act. Ever after years, she would still search his face or try to read his body language when she would perform a new move, trying to see if he liked it or not, approved or considered it too much. Yet he never reprimanded her for anything new and in a sense she sort of wished he did. For him to tell her it’s too much, or too little. That she shouldn’t have smiled too bright or broad. That her hair didn’t flow properly or she was too focused or not enough in the middle of her performance. But no, Alaric looked at her, if he ever met her gaze briefly, like it was for the very first time.

Iris never believed in magic until Carnage Circus. Even then, as she spun around invisible threads of fire, she still considered it an abstract notion. Something reserved perhaps for holly people or the complete opposite who dared to look into the eyes of darkness and realize there was more. She was neither, not even in between. All her life a bystander even to her own existence. She was good at ripping herself away from moments she did not wish to belong in. Like a ghost outside of her body, looking down on whatever scene played, with such indifference witnessing her very soul flicker out of existence each disgusting scene after another.

It had been a long time since she felt something call out to her, the craziest notion and set of circumstances when she witnessed the circus for the first time and saw him. By any standards he was just a man, or so she tried to convince herself. Everything had to be just smoke and mirrors, tricks of the light. For that made sense to her inside a very real and raw world.

What did not was the pull she felt towards him, as if he held in his very hands, the answers she had been searching for all her life. Having her heart tremble and at the same time beat faster was foreign. She was not a child or a teen to believe in fantasies, all those were taken away from her long ago.

But when she witnessed him, speaking to the crowd, staring into her eyes as if he knew her, the lines “You have come to the right place. I have been waiting for you.” something told her she needed to act no matter what. That it was this, him or nothing at all.

Concluding her performance, Iris stared at the empty seat, the very one she sat in when she looked upon the show for the very first time, her chest heaving slightly.

Alaric watched her from the sides, slowly lifting his hands to clap, startling her out of her thoughts “To answer your previous question, while you are rather new, I have been doing this for far longer than you. So you get used to the cities, to the people and what they wish to hear.”

She breathed out slowly “Then why do you rehearse?”

He slowly approached, not entering the light “Because change is imperative to keep things going, be it staff, attractions or a simple speech.”

She averted her gaze for a second, looking back at the chair she sat in once “Yet you have had the same staff for quite a number of years now.”

His eyes narrowed slightly despite her not paying attention to him “Less…hassle so to speak. Plus, you needed some consistency. I can’t have you thinking last in, first out.”

A single side glance, as if to assure herself he was still in the same spot. She heard the stories, everyone has. It was as if they surfaced when the circus was in town and died with it leaving “So everyone is replaceable one way or another?”

Alaric stepped forward into the light, the shadows still following him, his face obscured “Yes and no.”

She never did enjoy the cryptic messages, how he spoke to her as if in riddles, but then she noticed something, his lips moving without any sound coming out of his mouth, as if he was testing the words on his tongue before speaking.

“All are replaceable apart from you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, the words as if hitting something deep within her “Even you?” she asked before she even allowed for the question to linger in her mind. Alaric nodded his head, confusion clouding her mind. He was the director, he was famous, known. Feared…

“I don’t believe you are replaceable.” She saw the way his jaw tensed, as if doubt crept inside of him and in all honesty why should he believe her words, she rarely was on his side even on good days “You’re the head of the circus, you” she hesitated “control everything. Without you it would fall apart.”

Alaric shook his head “No, another would take over, the second in command, as it has always…” the words failed him “as it is intended.”

Her eyes widened slightly, taking a step towards him “You hesitated. How did you become the director?”

A long pause “I was called, nominated…forced” even the word itself was spoken roughly as if dragged with great effort from his mouth. Around the light, shadows loamed, circling them, trying to push through.

She hesitated before speaking, but a part of her wanted, no, needed to know “You never wished to be the director?” she asked as if testing the waters before adding “It all changed with you, the name, the theme.” All facts on display.

Alaric closed his eyes taking a step back, stopping when Iris took hold of his cane, eyes searching for answers in the darkness that was him, her light making his head spin. He knew he should give her an answer, tell her something, show her some things to keep her close or at the very least draw her closer as it should be. Even if his words failed him, the curse not allowing him to tell her everything, he could still work around some of the limitations imposed on him. But it was not fair in his eyes, she should understand from one look, be in tune with him, not against him.

Pulling at the cane she resisted “Answer me.”

The demanding tone made his teeth grit, a forceful pull making her let go and fall back a step as he retreated back behind the light. He watched her, whispers in his ears darkening his mind. A heavy sigh left his lips before he departed, Iris calling after him. He stopped before disappearing behind the heavy velvet curtains, a few motions in the dirt below his feet with his cane and then he was gone.

She approached slowly, glancing at one word written in the dirt “No.” and her heart felt an inexplicable ache. If he never wished to be the director, was forced by powers beyond his control then what chance did she have for salvation?

[lyatudor]

[lyatudor]

no one:

gothic fiction: is the house haunted or am i

[lyatudor]

Carnage Circus

Chapter 1 - The (un)lucky chosen

Warning 🔞⚠️: A horror/thriller story depicting elements of blood, manipulation, death, murder, implication of sex or sex themes, abuse, guns, blood, smoking and alcohol consumption.

Footsteps traversed the stuffy office area, people moving from left and right, taking phone calls or talking to others as documents are being exchanged, the sounds a continuous hum despite the early morning hour. Several coffee filters continue to sing their mechanical buzz as people wait with their empty mugs, small talk and pleasantries being exchanged between tired eyes and smiles, yawns hidden behind open hands.

“Looks like this year you’re up.” The captain of the station announced proudly as he discarded a heavy box on top of an already cluttered desk, dust particles lifting, happily dancing in the air between him and the detective who barely took the time to lift his eyes, despite the plaque with his name on it tumbling onto the floor.

Assessing the worn-out label reading “Carnage Circus” he scoffed as his superior bent to place the plaque back on the desk, dusting it off slightly on his pants.

“Is this this a joke captain?” he asked unimpressed as he focused back on the report he was working on, meticulously going over it again as he always did before presenting it to the captain who oddly enough was still standing in front of his desk.

“No joke, you know how this goes every time. A case is still a case and this time you’re the lucky detective.”

Waving him off with his left hand, he did not bother looking at his captain “Find someone else, I’m not interested in ancient cases.” However, the shadow of his superior still loomed over his desk, that piercing stare of his grinding on his nerves. He knew well enough he was not going to let it go.

Setting aside the pen, he opened a drawer, taking out a cigarette, finally lifting his eyes to the man in question.

“No debate detective, it’s your turn and you just closed a case.” He said reaching out to grab the file from his desk, but was met with a heavy sigh.

“I still need to go over it one more time and sign it.” He said taking a long drag.

Opening the file, the captain pointed at the dotted line “Then sign in.”

Shaking his head, he grabbed the pen and provided his signature right under the name Ethan Warren.

The captain smiled, pleased with himself “You need a break Ethan. Work the case, take it easy for a week until they leave our jurisdiction once more. It’s been a while since they have been in our city.” Taking the case file, he left the heavy box on the desk. It was an order, not a request.

Ethan sighed, taking a drag of his cigarette as he looked at the obnoxious label. It was not his area in the slightest. Cold cases like the one before him were usually for rookies, Carnage used in stations across the country to scare them. Every city had a story to share about the mysterious circus and its directors. Because the one who suddenly decided to land back in his territory was not the first and something told him, he would not be the last. Like a gut feeling that manifested suddenly as soon as the idea sprung to life.

Putting out the cigarette he glanced around at his colleagues. He was one of the best detectives there. Used to working hard, long hours on the terrain, his sharp mind piecing together clues others missed.

This…he frowned at the dusty box was not him at all. He heard the ridiculous stories from others, how many detectives quit after looking into the circus even before the change in name. Some even went mad apparently, having said to witness devils and other atrocities they could not explain and were never proven.

And now, the case was sitting on his desk and something did not sit right with him. Last time someone from his station was assigned the case, it was supposed to be a simple easy questioning of the crew. It was an older detective, one year prior to the retirement he was so looking forward to. Poor bloke hung himself a few days after the circus left, doddles of the mirror house and shadows painting his notebook instead of answers from the crew.

The same crew…

“What a load of crap.” With a freshly lit cigarette between chapped lips, he carefully lifted the lid to read past notes of issues that occurred on the circus grounds or what he liked to believe were conspiracy theories at best. Because what they had were just that, ideas, nothing concrete, no solid evidence to link disappearances or deaths to the crew.

The poor soul that managed to stumble into the panther’s cage was ruled out as an accident. They couldn’t even recognize him when the animal was done with him, chunks of his body missing, a gruesome scene for those who were called to take what was left of him.

Another visitor was intoxicated, so the report said, him stumbling into the main tent, a ladder falling on him. Death, instant, not even a hesitation in the report. An accident.

A few apparently were seen entering the haunted house, however never came out. Reports state the circus closed the attraction for a few days each time as police searched, all doors and hidden areas opened, yet nothing was found. But then again, the people reporting the disappearance were always intoxicated to some degree, not a very credible source.

And then there was an influential figure the police had their eyes of for some financial schemes performed and abuse towards escorts and hookers. He was the last suspected victim from three years ago. Apparently, the bastard really liked to be present at every circus show, flaunt the latest girl on his arm, each night a new one. Until a certain beauty caught his attention. Iris Blackwell, the last addition to the circus.

Ash fell from his cigarette against her name, burning through the paper, Ethan cursing under his breath as he quickly pressed his finger against the paper before continuing to read.

Autopsy report: Death by strangulation with puppet cords as he found himself inside the props tent. No prints, his body twisted in the sharp cords as he struggled to free himself.

After that nothing. No more mysterious occurrences or so-called accidents. No more issues as if the balance was oddly restored in the middle of the chaos.

Turning towards older cases, a pattern formed in his mind, one he wrote down on his notebook for later. If he was going to work this so called mess of a case, he would make the best of it.

He would ignore how people stated the circus was cursed. That because of so many deaths, the Carnage name was forged when in the past it used to be something almost generic, fun, catchy. Yet despite the dark rumors circling it, whenever they were in any town, tickets for the main show sold within the very first hours, everyone as if attracted by some sort of morbid curiosity that had them flocking towards the mystery behind the tents and attractions.

Good marketing strategy, or so Ethan wished to believe.

Looking at the list of directors, Alaric Blackwell has held up the longest out of all of them. However, he also had the most changes in crew and main show acts. Until Iris.

“Looks like mister Blackwell is finally ready for another visit.” Ethan said sitting up from his chair placing the reports in his desk, locking it and pocketing the key. Running a hand through his hair, he then lit up another cigarette before stretching. He took his notebook, circling Iris’s name before he left his desk to grab a cup of coffee.

[lyatudor]

Carnage Circus

Intro

At first posters take over dilapidated buildings, poles, walls, designated areas and none in particular, like a storm suddenly washing over everything. Crimson red, yellow, bold tellers, some straight, some crocked, it matters not, they are there, one on top of the other, sticking to walls and lamp posts. They are present on the streets, the wind carrying them until the posters meet a flat surface, a window, anything.

It does not matter which radio station you are listening to, the connection breaks for a moment, reception cloudy, leaving a crackle of a voice through the speakers no matter which way you decide to turn the dial. It’s there, raw, distorted, whispering at first, slowly, like the crawling of the fog that is creeping through the city “Come all, join us for a week of fun…” the last word as if not belonging in the vocabulary of that person, still warped no matter the frequency. However the voice is undeniable, Alaric Blackwell is back in town “Carnage Circus has returned.”

There is no sound of caravans on the cobalt streets that echo even the faintest whisper. The circus isn’t and then…it is. Like it should be, as if it was always part of the landscapes. As if when you look out the window and see the tents and attractions, it belongs. Even for a few days. It calls out to you from within the thick fog.

It’s everywhere, talk around the latest town, twisted music high in the air, an echo contributing to the white noise all around. And as days go by and posters start to peel you know the end of the show is near, another year or more to pass before the show will return, no guarantee of the same performance twice and it feels like losing something once it’s gone, a part unknown yet dear.

A group of people, wanderers, over and over again.

You never know when the circus comes to town until it’s there.

You never see it leave, part of the magic.

“Welcome to Carnage Circus everyone. It has been a while.”

[lyatudor]

Carnage Circus

Let there be carnage...

On 19.11.2021 I introduced the concept of Carnage Circus as an Alternate Universe (AU) for some characters of mine and some friends used in fanfiction. It was an idea I wanted to launch for Halloween. A small story I used in order to have fun, building a new world and giving it the Halloween vibes.

When I actually went back in time in order to find the date...I was stunned. In my mind, they had been with me always, it seems like yesterday that the idea came to life.

However they had lived and I wrote for them a long time after the initial announcement, last story for it being published on 02.11.2023

Back then...I let it lose, very few planning apart from the lore and some rules set in stone. I just wrote. And out of that love for the idea a story was born, alongside multiple other mini stories of before and after some time later.

Now I am sitting almost...half a year in 2025.

In the years/months between I sat with it, read it many times, had my better half publish a paper back version of it that I loved but terrified me at the same time. Because it meant in my head that he actually took time to read, to document and create a live version, something palpable when in my mind it had always been fiction, fantasy...even if I shared it online.

It stunned me into silence. Seeing an actual real copy of the story terrified me.

But I also shared it with friends. Brought it with myself on trips to read it over again, cringed, loved it and hated it at the same time. And one day while I was on the train going to a work meeting I wondered what I can change to make it better at least for me, just for me.

The paperback took a hit, massive one. I am surprised I didn't actually rip pages from the book. I wanted more. More lore than I spent hours thinking of, I wanted more love, more horror, more torment.

Now it's 2025. Am I ready?

No.

But i added chapters, changed names, made it mine more than before. I poured myself once more in a world that I thought forgotten and it felt like falling in love.

Is it ready to see the light of day? No.

Far from it.

But carnage was raw the first time over. And now with rewriting certain parts it's ever worse. I didn't gatekeep that story so I am doing the unthinkable now.

After being silent for so long and the characters not talking, now that they are speaking...I will launch them. They had a week to understand everything after denying practically all on this earth so I shall do the same.

When one chapter is ready, it's out.

I promised myself this year is trial by fire and Carnage Circus wasn't even in the works. Well...looks like a lot of things aren't so let's howl together.

[lyatudor]

“She burned, like a brand of fire. I wanted her to burn, to scorch my skin and wipe the slate clean. But the curse wasn’t skin deep, no, it had always been soul deep. And there I didn’t know how to let anyone in. Despite all the darkness, everything I hid so well, her light just laid it bare before my eyes and for that I could not look at her. I wanted to hate her from the very moment I saw her and realized who she was, or even better...what. But the curse didn’t even give me that. So I loved her, for I was lost the moment she became a part of the show and I saw colors around me once more.”

[lyatudor]

Yesterday was WORLD BOOK DAY. Because I can’t do anything timely, I can only encourage you to grab a copy of UNTIMELY today.

[lyatudor]

It feels like falling in love again...

if you know, you know

[lyatudor]

Last year on 17.04 I finished the first draft for "I am not dead"

Now I find myself, almost a year later ready to truly dive back in and not just snippets. Here's to a good streak.

Welcome back my lovely boys.

Twilight my sweet broken baby.

Anonymous the heart of the story.

Nemesis my dark, broody leader.

[lyatudor]

Dedication

Usually dedication come at the beginning of a book but in my case it will be right at the very end for there is a lot to mention for those that have passed and inspired this little horror story.

Firstly I know it is not horror in the true sense a story would follow, but it encompasses the struggles of various souls and ghosts between its lines. And if that isn't horror, I don't know what is.

It is dedicated for the last creators from my family that I was fortunate to meet. It is for those that have passed far too early or young that I still love and hold close, but do not or cannot talk about. To you I dedicate the words my soul managed to conjure to the best of its abilities for remembering still hurts.

I dedicate this for those who struggle at times to find themselves and a reason to continue and move on. To the chaos that exists within each and everyone, whether we deny or accept it.

To the person that manages to see my soul when I do not and knows that my soul is dying when I do not write. To you I raise my ring finger.

To the people that have met me face to face and have listened to my words despite not being their burden to bare. To you I raise a wine glass filled with magic.

To you...

To everyone that used to be and those that still are.

Thank you.

[lyatudor]

The story collector

Chapter 22 - A piece of history

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

“Fortunately I have met my uncle while he was still alive and this museum was but a dream…” the teller’s voice fades out, last syllables being carried throughout the building. Each room a testimony of art, sculptures and paintings, donated by family or created within those walls by him. She was but a child when she met him, however as years passed, she remained the sole creator within the family.

A family of engineers, mathematicians, IT experts and her.

The granddaughter of an old-school journalist, of a mother who loves painting and drawing yet never had the time later on in life to enjoy such things. From the upper-level, people look down at her in more ways that one, for she is an oddity. A creator from the shadows, emerging despite her background being in business and also IT, for that is the future of the world and will continue to be.

However, she holds her head high as she speaks, a serene look in her eyes “I do think the past was better suited in a sense for creating because we used out imagination” Her eyes darken, a slight shift, carefully masked as she forces her eyes downwards, ignoring the looks from above “and nothing else. We truly used only our brains instead of prompting a program to generate something for us in terms of images or a grander speech using AI that at the end of the day uses many words without saying something. We used to think” she lifts her head, eyes looking directing into a camera recording “read to broaden our minds, feel more and technology played little to no role in what creation truly was.” She pauses and the crowd looks at her and her at them.

From above a familiar figure and not quite smirks slightly and another comes into view “We need her.” The collector states without even casting a glance sideways “Too bad it ends with her. No more future generations.”

A male voice resonates, echoes reaching every part of the museum creates in his name “There are other branches in the family, other children that might inherit the gene.”

The collector rolls its eyes “Not quite and there are fewer and fewer that breed. Artists are indeed dying.” She looks to its side, eyes casting at the ethereal presence near it “Don’t worry, she will become the next story collector. You wanted an artist, someone willing to part with a piece of themselves, looking at the world from multiple points of views, she will do nicely. For what is an artist but a person who knows how to rip pieces of their very soul with bloody hands and paints something new? Creation is pain.”

The voice booms “Just ensure she will not rot in the earth when her times comes.”

The collector looks at the urn in the other room “Not to worry, the earth never wanted her anyway. She will join you and be eternal.”

[lyatudor]

The story collector

Chapter 21 - Sweet spiral

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

There is understanding in her eyes, somewhere deep within, as if the beast is now FINALLY satiated, even if for just a moment. And then she asks “Why do you feel like this then?” as if she knows everything.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh yes you do” there is a conviction in her words that cannot be shaken “you always knew, you have known all along that you could never allow yourself to be happy. That you always found some pathetic excuse tied to your past, something to scrape your soul raw, so raw until there was nothing but shattering pain. Because THAT you think you can take. And if there is even a slither of hope, you annihilate it because you are utterly afraid of losing anything again. So, you chose to remain in such a desperate state that is so familiar and warm even to you. Pain is a known factor.”

The teller nods, accepting, surrendering fully “It is, it always has been.” And then something shatters “But it isn’t fair. I have everything. EVERYTHING!” pain, unwanted, raw yet ancient “And yet here I am waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something to happen and I am terrified because I know that the moment that happens I will completely crumble.”

And the collector feeds on it, on her pain, like a moth to a burning flame, drawing closer, leaning in, her hair encompassing the face of her teller as if she was about to whisper the secrets of the universe against her lips “Yet you dig and dig with your sharp claws, peeling away at the happiness you build up, eroding yourself just so you can come back into the embrace of darkness. But I’m here.” She smiles faintly “When you close your tired eyes to try and sleep, I’m there. Always have been. I am you.” She whispers the last past, softly, so soft as if a kiss was placed against the others’ lips.

It feels like the building shakes from the very ground of the hallow elevator shaft to the office they are sitting in, a piece of the wall falling and shattering against the floor, revealing the mold and rotten boards underneath it as the collector continues to speak.

“I am your torment. But at the same time you deny me, wake up, lashes fluttering open as you fight back tears and retreat into an empty kitchen to try and calm your hectic heart, drinking a strong dark coffee trying to find the strength at a bottom of a fucking empty barrel that you have scrapped at for years. Wake up! You have dug so deep, not only isn’t there anything left there, there isn’t even a bottom to speak of.”

The teller shakes her head, finally pushing her body off the uncomfortable chair, letting it topple over, the sound not echoing as if it encountered emptiness “I have everything, I should be happy, I shouldn’t be screaming at nothingness. Nothing, NOTHING justifies feeling this way. How the fuck can I even begin to explain to anyone that I feel so empty that I don’t even recognize myself, that it makes absolutely no fucking sense? I have a house, a job, a family, I am good, better than most. I get to see, do things most could only dream of.” She pounds like a war drum against her ribs, her chest, until her skin turns red and pain radiates.

However she is met with the collector that shakes her head mockingly “Waiting for the other shoe to drop. And then what will you do? Will you crumble or will you be reborn through yet another painful trial? I think I know the answer, do you?” she asked pointing a finger at her.

“I am a hypocrite, this is what I am. There’s no other explanation. I am so broken, so fucked up in the head that I can’t even see what’s in front of me. And I hide and can’t tell the truth and when or even if I could, then I am met with the realization that no, I can’t feel this way, I shouldn’t. Because I have survived so much, because I have been through pain and I survived. So of course I can’t feel this.”

A wicked smile painting her lips “Such a little pitiful thing, yet you do.” The smile spreading impossibly wide.

She feels like she’s losing it, but the words pour out of her mouth like vomit “And it’s all in my head and I wake up and fake another day. In which I can barely concentrate to function, in which I try to ignore myself and force everything inside of me to go numb. Because that’s how I function. Deny, deny, feel it when alone, have a good cry, breathe deep and get back up. Always.” Always, it has to always happen, like a vicious cycle.

“And forever. Do you think in death you will find peace?”

The question resonates. So many times asked, but it surprises her nonetheless.

“No. Never. Not me. I was born agitated, kicking and screaming, crying so loud. Always on edge, waiting to fall over. Always looking into the void, smiling at it when it smiled back. Blood and tears. Flesh tearing pain, soul breaking.”

“The flesh heals. Feelings, meh, you know the drill. Need I remind you?” A dismissive hand being waved around as if she were an annoying fly and nothing more.

But she speaks, clear, as if a creed is falling from between her lips “You get used to the pain, you tell yourself it gets easier to maneuver around it.”

“But you never do, do you?”

“No, you do, you actually grow used to it, learn to live with it.”

“Two opposite things to my ears, or so it sounds.” Another cold scoff “A soul is a fragile thing, but you know that. You have spent your life being direct and yet not so hurtful as you have wished to be. Because there have been people that deserve to see the beauty of your rage, yet you held back, tried to mince your words, filter them and by doing so, your emotions. Made them smaller, made them less significant. And those ate you right up. Because this is the thing, if you don’t feel, if you refuse to let it out, be it light or darkness, you have to live with it. And no one can live with themselves.” Isn’t that the truth, the teller thinks as she listens “And those that say they do, they lie. They dug even deeper, refused to see themselves or abandoned who they were. But nothing is louder than the silence of the night when thoughts ring. When the subconscious does this delicious little thing and shows you terrible things.” She licks her lips as if she just tasted something delicious and rare.

“And we become impostors in our daily lives.” She teller continues like in a trance

“We do, we are, always will be.”

“Everything so in our faces.” A breath stolen “in the face…of us.”

“If only we could lift our eyes and see it. Let it actually sink in. Being a failure isn’t half as bad. Pretending you aren’t is not as catchy as it sounds. We are all impostors.”

She hesitates before she asks “Are you one?”

“I am you, so you tell me.”

“I am not you.”

“Aren’t you? Am I not the pain, the blood, the tears, the terrors? Are you not those things? Are you not the intrusive thoughts that run ramped? Those forbidden ones that are even more glorious than your feelings of inadequacy? You fake it and you fake it well, you just don’t know which parts aren’t real anymore because you have worn this mask for so long, letting it crumble here and there, repairing it one way or another. But where are you really? What are you really feeling?”

“Empty.” She lets the word echo, finally something sounding inside of her.

“No, that’s a lie. I would not be here if there was only a void inside of you.”

“Not the same thing. A void would have a pull, and I do not. You do not.”

An all-knowing smile shapes her lips “You do, you still shine, that’s why people are drawn to you, sometimes inexplicably so. Have you even wondered why?”

“Because I wished long ago for that.”

“And what else.”

“Beauty.”

“And?”

“Happiness.”

“And did you get those?”

“I got what I needed, not what I wanted.” It hurts to admit something so raw.

“Good, good, there is hope for you yet.” The collector nods approvingly once more “A mask of power, of experience through grief. Of relating to others. Empath despite denying it. You pour your soul out even when you don’t and yet no one knows you. Are you alright with that?”

“They needn’t know everything.”

“They needn’t know. Ever. Because if they do?”

Their voices sound similar, as one and apart at the same time.

“They would suffer and not understand. They would see just the darkness.”

“They would see ME.”

“And we can’t have that.”

“No, we can’t. They need to see your smile even if it doesn’t always reach your eyes. They need someone to run to even when you don’t run to them.” The collector’s cold hands cup her cheeks “They need a sounding board. But your jagged edges have been worn out, few things stick with you. You feel then discard, try to feel again and yet…”

“I don’t know what I feel. Will I ever will?”  her eyes search, trying to see something, anything, the answer to it all.

“Probably not. Not as long as I am you and you are me.”

“And if we are one?”

“Will the world understand? Or will we create another mask to show everyone?”

A question left hanging, for both, for each other, for later…

[lyatudor]

oh you, atroucius ghost

you are the echo

that fills

the voids of my words

[lyatudor]

[lyatudor]

The story collector

Chapter 20 - Eternals

A story inspired by real events, dreams or more.

Warning 🔞⚠️: Dark horror stories with elements of death, decay, sex, drugs, alcohol, suicide, religion and overall spook factor for your reading pleasure.

Most of the stories I have either start with a dream of some sorts or waking up from one. Now you have to consider a dream holds many forms.

It can be a state in which your subconscious choses at the most inopportune time of the night or day, when all you require is just some restless sleep or a trial of silence and focus, to show you something your mind could not even conceive or remember. Names, faces of strangers you passed by, morphing of scenes seen in a movie series, everything can happen when we close our eyes.

Other times it can be this state of dreaming with eyes wide open, the state that I personally refer to as “writing in my head” while others simply call it “day dreaming”, however I am well past that silly stage. It is far more for me, deeper, in both complexity and feelings. It’s not just dreaming about something and not ending up anywhere. It’s world building, it’s actually going through different stages with characters, sitting with them, developing, arguing and all there is in between what eventually leads to writing and the stories shared or hidden away in old dusty notebooks or folders on a computer that will never see the light of day or the darkness of night.

Food for the soul we will call them, or spurs of absolute madness. Both equally as self-indulgent as the other.

And then there is the dreaming about something part, setting a goal so to say. Those are perhaps the hardest. They weigh differently.

I for one never could pinpoint when I started writing, a memory locked away inside my head that for whatever reason unbeknownst to me will forever be hidden.

However I remember a part of the why, specifically certain sounds and smells I relate to it.

I happened to wake up on multiple nights, far before the sun even graced the sky. It was the inconsistent but constant sound of an old fashion type writer, the sound of the multiple prominent digits that would be pressed over and over again, only to end the line with a chime as a new one began. It was fast paced at times, while on other nights I would wake to the sudden sound of a few words in a night.

It was always behind a closed door that barely let out light through the glass pane, the bulb on the only night lamp set on the desk never enough to provide a proper source. But it felt as if in those late hours there was no need for more. I remember the lamp right in the middle of the ceiling, dusty, old and outdated, however I don’t remember it working a day in my life.

And then there was coffee, the smell of it cascading through the apartment. Always coffee, perhaps tea if there were too many had throughout the day or if it was far too cold outside. The walls never properly insulated, the cold sweeping in through the wooden windows despite the heater blaring right under the desk.

But it was inside that room that fervent ideas came to life, letter by letter, page by page.

And the boxes of small notes, everything handwritten as it was done before technology took over everything and we became different brands and people. It was all manual, all done through research, endless hours spent in the library, through the smell of dusty old books, taking notes until your hand hurt, ink ran dry and your fingers were deformed from holding onto the pen too tight as if your very soul depended on what you were researching and writing.

That smell, it’s probably the only reason why I still prefer paper to digital up to this day.

Because it reminds me of stories when going to the cinema was a social event, reserved for rare occasions. Television was little to nothing, so people would read, discuss pages and argue about their favorite authors. They would enjoy a drink, something always homemade, along the jam, served in small crystal sources accompanied by intricate silver spoons with unique patterns carved in them.

I still wake up thinking the house smells like coffee despite having abandoned long ago the filter with a set timer. I wake up at three or four in the morning thinking about coffee and smelling it in the air, the taste of it real on my tongue. I travers the long hallway, in my still sleep induced state, blinking away the fatigue as a faint light shines through the glass embedded on the door.

My ears pick up the sounds outside but I can still hear the faint sound of the typewriter echoing through the night.

As my hand presses against the handle, I walk into silence and nothingness. The sounds and smells are all in my mind. The light from the streets below me. The room a far cry from what it used to be in the past when I would peak through the cracked door to watch her write.

But the room still smells like old books, all of them now stacked in cardboard boxes, my modern furniture with small shelves not harboring enough space to contain all of them. Books of the past, pages no one reads anymore. Some of them are in languages I do not speak and more than likely will never find time to learn.

A life, all stored away.

But as I turn on a light from the hallway because the ceiling light is still not fixed, my fingers tremble against a book cover with her name on it. She always believed writers were eternal and before passing, she too has published, ensuring a spot on the eternal row.

But I always believed her soul was far too solid for this passing world. She was eternal before even publishing anything. She was made for it.

A soul of endless words, smelling of coffee, sounds depicting a writer’s struggle.